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Sunday, 13 January 2019

My new day job finds me re-visiting the echoes of my past in a nostalgic haven. When I found out Enid Blyton’s classics were on the list I was delighted, though apprehensive. ‘Didn’t they change the names?’ I asked. I mean ok, Fanny and Dick are undeniably dated, not to mention loaded with innuendo in today’s society, but just who are Joe, Beth, Frannie and Rick anyway?

That’s the thing… Dick and Fanny have connotations, I will admit, but they are connotations to the adult mind, and that is the point. The young Elloise found nothing at all wrong with her heroes’ names. She loved the Magic Faraway Tree, its bizarre and obnoxious inhabitants and the wonderful lands waiting to be discovered among its peaks. If you had told her what fanny meant she would not have been at all interested, telling you to shush so she could see what would happen in the Topsy, Turvy land.

So why did the names get changed? To update them for a modern reader, apparently. I find myself wondering why other books and films of my childhood have not been ‘outlawed’ and re-released in such a fashion. I can think of a plethora of children’s films, even newer ones being released today, which are absolutely rife with adult connotations entirely unsuitable – and let’s face it downright unsavoury – when you consider they are found spattered in between the innocent scenes of children’s films. One only has to switch on the radio or flick onto Youtube to find children reciting the most inappropriate lyrics.

So are Dick and Fanny really so offensive? And just what did Bessie do to deserve the same treatment? Ok, I told myself… have to get on board with this. Have to accept the changes. I found an ebook, a very good reading, as it happens, by Kate Winslet, but no matter how much attention I pay, Frannie is Fanny. Is it you, Kate? Are you reading the original names in subtle protest to this updating? Or is it my brain substituting what it knows to be the original, pure words of this favourite author of my childhood?

Try as I may, I cannot follow these characters’ adventures as much as I did their original counterparts. Frannie is just not as much fun. (See what I did there? A six-year-old wouldn’t.) Rick is the less interesting cousin. By changing the original, some magic, some of that pure, original intention is gone. I have to wonder… instead of censoring our literature, shouldn’t we focus on censoring our society, so that these juvenile, outdated and frankly not that amusing innuendos get censored instead? Would we really suffer if the word ‘dick’ were no longer so amusing?

Just where did it all start anyway? In the follies of our past, where racism, sexism, and all of the other isms were acceptable. Time has moved on. Thankfully our understanding and tolerance has moved on. And now it is time to focus that understanding and tolerance in the right place. Leave Dick and Fanny where they should be, and focus on censoring the right things, before we destroy childhood happiness for the wrong reasons.

I am yet to decide whether I will read the new names out loud to ensure consistency with the modern text or whether I will stick firm to the originals in homage to their time and nostalgic brilliance. Whichever I choose, internally I will not forget where this thought led me today, and will strive never to compensate for the wrong reasons.

Wednesday, 5 December 2018

As someone who feels strongly about gender parity, and about striving for equality, today I witnessed unmistakable gender division which showed me that much as we might push for women and men to have the same rights and abilities, there are fundamental differences in the way we see the world and the way we process logic which drives our behaviour to be different.

Today I went to Cadbury World, Birmingham’s world famous chocolate factory, which sadly was not quite as fantastical and rich to me as it was when I was a youngster. Apparently Creme Eggs are not smaller than they used to be – I saw the chocolate moulds which allegedly prove it. Also allegedly they were not originally made with Dairy Milk – apparently that was only introduced in 2008 which I find incredibly hard to believe. Anyway, enough ranting about the loss of the deliciousness that was Creme Eggs. Today’s blog was about the differences between men and women.

At Cadbury World you do still get ‘free’ chocolate (albeit considerably less than you used to, ahem) and in a big mixed gender group today there was a significant difference in the way the males and females treated these freebies.

I am told that men see chocolate as sustenance, as immediate satisfaction, whereas women have a more emotional connection with chocolate, seeing it as a luxury to be savoured. Perhaps this is true, perhaps it is the way chocolatiers have conditioned us to be with their advertising over the years, but whichever of those it is, today when given freebies, almost to a man, the males ate each bar immediately, saving nothing for later, whereas almost every woman popped each bar straight into their bag to take home and have at a later time.

Could there have been any more perfect demonstration of the differences in the way men and women think than this? If I had surveyed every man about why he ate the chocolate or every woman why she saved it would I have received two sets of identical answers? Are we really that fundamentally different in the ways we see the world and the ways we think?

Or was it the behaviour of individual preferences imprinting on the group – one person makes an idle comment about saving it for later so the surrounding people do the same? One person excitably announces how much they love this type of chocolate bar and tucks in, letting those nearby know that it is ok to do so without judgment? I am not sure, but I do know what I saw, and it struck me as significant enough to reflect on it several hours afterwards. Are we fundamentally, internally different, divided by gender, or do we naturally seek to conform as a pack and create this division ourselves?

Sunday, 14 October 2018

“You can’t just take a screen actor and put them on a theatre stage; it doesn’t work that way.” I found that comment coming out of my mouth as I left the Birmingham REP recently. I went to a matinee of Rebus. Ian Rankin, Rebus’s creator, wrote the story himself, and it was then adapted for stage and has received fairly good reviews. I love a theatre trip; it is always a lovely way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

I had never read any Rankin books and I have never seen an episode of Rebus on TV, but I know how highly praised the Rebus stories are so I was looking forward to this. I love detective stories in general, to be honest. Give me a Morse, Marple or Poirot and I am captivated. Give me a Nordic noir and I am intrigued. Give me a Castle or a Murder She Wrote and I am content.

The week before the play I read Knots and Crosses, the first Rebus book. I was impressed. Short, sharp, clever, it ticked the boxes, and I arrived at the theatre with a good enough sense of the character and his background to be able to leap forward in his story to the time in his life when Long Shadows is set – beyond retirement as he is pulled back to an old unsolved case and the ghosts of his past.

The story itself was excellent. The portrayal of the character was along the right lines albeit very different to how I saw Rebus in my head; however, Knots and Crosses was set a long time before this and I do not know what has happened in between these two stories to further shape and damage the character. I also enjoyed the way his past murder victims were frequently on stage providing judgement, accusation, questioning and so on to Rebus as he remembered details from their murders and his past deeds.

But – and I bring myself back to the point of this blog – sound was an issue. Voice projection, to be explicit. It is not the first time I have seen a television actor play a part in a theatre production and had to strain extremely hard to hear what was being said. Being able to project one’s voice is a key skill in a stage performer. With the best will in the world, if the audience cannot hear you, their emotional connection with you is lost, and that is what happened here, with almost every character on the stage.

Almost every character… with the exception of two. Two female actresses who played the two victims from historic cases, the two ghosts, were the best actors in the play, no question. And most distressing was that they were the only two players who had to share a stage bow at the end. All the rest got solo applause. I found that extremely distasteful.

Two of the main characters were played by actors familiar from television. Their voice projection was poor, both in terms of volume and intonation. Their energy on stage waned in the second half, their performance seeming to shrink as though aimed towards a television camera with a narrow field of vision rather than a theatre with an almost 180 degree span of viewers. It seemed stilted. Perhaps this was the director’s choice? The play was dark, set between seedy bars and gloomy offices; small locations, small discoveries. Perhaps the contained performances were intentional? I will never know if that was the intent, but for me, this detective story with these actors did not translate well from screen to stage. The story – its haunted narrative, its hard, tragic corners, demanded more of a performance, more of a strong darkness, more life.

(Aside: please see my past blogs about actors playing roles in a different accent to their own. There is no need, people. Get a Scotchman to play a Scot. There is no shortage of fine Scottish actors.)

That is not to say I did not enjoy the play. As I said, the story was excellent. The set adapted very well to the various locations and the overall tone of the play. I came away still having very much enjoyed my Saturday matinee at the theatre. It just left me wanting a little more. Where I should have been reeling with the scale of Rebus’ decision, and the emotional impact of the story, instead I was wondering what had been said, or wishing it had been said with a little more conviction and grit.

You cannot just take a screen actor and put them on stage and expect the output to be at the same level of impact. They are different skills. Performance, honed take by take to a television camera until it is perfect, require far different abilities than standing in character for two hours or more in front of a live audience and being that character, embodying it fully for the audience for every second. I stand by my judgement. Just as a novel writer requires a different skill set to an editor, and a screenwriter from a director, so too does the screen actor from the stage actor. Cast the right ones and the audience will be with you from start to the bitter end.

Sunday, 30 September 2018

A month ago I left Budapest after living there for
almost a year, and now, as I write this, it already feels so distant an
experience… I dreamt it ere I woke.

So quickly has my new career drawn me in, filling my
days and spare time with reflection and research. So familiar have become my
old haunts so fast, old trodden paths come newly worn again. Faces, places of my past once more claimed as mine, as now. The heat and ancient majesty of
Budapest, its shimmering banks and the Danube’s magic left behind along with
the mysteries of its language and its people.

That was a different life I lived. One that may seem
lost in a haze of the moment, but will not be forgotten.

Viszontlátásra, Budapest. You were a wonder. A dream. A foray
into the land of the fae for feet that walk earth once again. I shall think of
you next time I gaze out across a lake at sunset, or walk through snow-covered streets.
The time went by so quickly, but the memories will take much longer to fade.

Saturday, 4 August 2018

Those who know
me know that I really cannot stand to see gender prejudice. When we think about
gender bias I am sure most people consider it in terms of rights for women, but
we should remember that it can go the other way too. This week I had an
experience which I found quite shocking, both in terms of what happened and
then afterwards discovering what my colleagues felt about it.

What started the
whole thing was a pair of shorts. We are in eastern Europe.
It has been consistently 33+ degrees outside for the last goodness knows how
many weeks. It is hot, and what I mean by that is that it is seriously hot. Hot
enough to be permanently tiring. Hot enough to feel permanently uncomfortable.
Hot enough to generate a near-constant sheen of sweat across my brow. It is
hot.

A fairly new
male member of staff came to work wearing a pair of shorts. They were smart
shorts, knee length, inoffensive in no way whatsoever. This staff member was
told to by his line manager, not in private, but in full view of his whole
department, that his dress was inappropriate and unsuited for a work
environment and that he should go home and get changed into full length
trousers. I did not witness this conversation but am told afterwards that
everyone was laughing at him and the manager’s approach was very blunt, and
borderline rude.

I checked the
policy when I heard this story. Our office dress code is ‘smart dress’ and
nowhere in the document states that men have to wear full length trousers or
that shorts are forbidden.

Needless to say
the staff member in question did not take this order well, and the situation
escalated into a discussion with the head of the office and the HR head and a
series of latter communications over the subsequent hours and days – the
contents of which obviously I was not privy to – but the end of the story is
that his contract was terminated.

When I heard
about this situation later on, I was outraged on his behalf. From what I hear
his behaviour after the initial incident was certainly unacceptable and as a department
manager myself I certainly would not have tolerated that in my own team. However,
my point is: the incident which started the chain of events – the request that
he go home and change into trousers – shocked me. I completely understand that
he would have found that a frustrating and unjustified request. I am not
surprised that he reacted negatively.

When I
challenged my fellow managers on this, I was further shocked to discover that
not a one of them, male or female, agreed with my point of view or saw the
decision to send him home to change as a poor decision. When I asked on what
basis they felt this was the right thing to have done, not one of them could
give me an answer. I pointed out that no one is forcing me to cover my legs in
full length trousers or tights in this weather. They laughed. “Are you hot in
those trousers?” I asked a male colleague who was wearing suit trousers. He
refused to answer. “Do you not see that this is gender bias and is not
acceptable?” I asked them. Two of them told me it was not gender bias but “the
way things should be.”

I was disgusted
by the reactions of all of them, and felt incredibly disappointed that the
company I work for, that prides itself on having a modern and open culture, a
‘western’ culture in a traditionally closed and hierarchical society, had a
group of such narrow-minded people forming its leadership team. I told them so, and also that I didn’t blame him for being annoyed at being told to go home and change.
I explained how disappointed I was to be working among a team of dinosaurs, and
left them to hopefully consider what I had said.

At the end of
this month I am leaving the company. A career change into a new industry will
be my next chapter, and I am pleased to say that at face value my new employer
appears to actually embody that modern and open culture that my current company
thinks it has. I have recently discovered that my new workplace actually has a
gender neutral dress code. There is a little spark of hope within me that I
will find the beliefs and opinions of my new colleagues more in line with my
own, or at the least open to the ideas of others and open to the idea of change.

Gender bias
works both ways, against women, against men, and neither is acceptable. Here,
where it was based on unchallenged traditions and illogical decisions, it was a
shocking demonstration of old fashioned values conflicting with the modern
world. I can only hope the people around me will learn to open their minds a
little more after this week’s episode.

Sunday, 17 June 2018

When I moved to
Budapest I knew I would have at the least just shy of a year and was really
exited by that fact. The thought of experiencing all of the seasons, knowing
that here they have more extreme seasonal distinctions appealed to my constant
desires for experience and variety. Since then, I have learned how it feels to live through some of these seasons.

I arrived in autumn to a pleasant surprise. It was warm, as warm as an English summer, in
fact, and I basked in it. Yes I had to do boring admin like queuing for hours
at the immigration office, finding a banker who spoke English to get a bank
account open, and apartment hunting, but it was an enjoyable weather welcome to
my new home and it helped me to appreciate that I had made the right decision
in coming here.

Winter was cold.
I think in a solid month long period in January/February the temperature
remained permanently below zero. Bundling up was a necessity. My thick winter
coat was a blessing. Yet I did not feel so terribly cold to the bone as I
usually do in an English winter. The lack of a constant wind made a difference.
Also the damp in the air, I am told. On stripping off outer layers after being
outside, it does not take a further five hours to really feel warm again like I
have on occasion at home.

Which brings me
more to the now. It is early June. The beginning of March was still on the
chilly wintery side of the seasons. In early April when I returned after a break spring and summer had definitely merged as far as I am concerned. For the last
two months or so now, bar the odd few days here or there where it gets stormy and
the temperature drops to the mid 20s, it has been steadily in the high twenties
or low thirties – and we are talking degrees Celsius here – all day every day.
I wake up and get ready for work in 27 degrees. I scurry around at lunchtime
trying to run errands or hide in the shade from 32 degrees. I go to sleep at
night in 27 degrees. In short, it is very hot. If this is spring, I confess I am quite scared about going into full summer. Wish me luck.

I have always
loved the sun, and even described myself as a sun worshipper on occasion. Cut
to my first weekend in Budapest when I moved here, sunbathing on Margaret
Island (Margitsziget). Cut to last summer, England, we had a several week run
of very pleasant weather in the 25 degree region. My lunchtime routine became a
short walk to the local university campus for a 99 with a flake and a sunbathe
before returning to the office. In fact it was the only thing getting me
through the work day back then. At the end of the summer I quit the Birmingham
property industry, hence my almost-year in Budapest.

As I sit here in
my apartment, 9am Sunday, the early morning sun beams through the windows and
makes the waters of the Danube gleam invitingly. If I could go and jump in it,
I would, but I have been highly discouraged from doing so! Instead I am
planning a mini holiday to Lake Balaton, Hungary’s beaches on the lake region,
and of course there are always the thermal baths close by when you feel that
need to plunge into cool water. Which I do, on around a three-hourly basis. It
can be an expensive habit.

For someone who
thought she was a sun worshipper, living in sun of this strength, for
continuous periods like this, is hard work. Sticky, sun-cream laden skin is now
the norm, rather than the sign of a holiday. No freezer compartment is big
enough for the number of ice cubes I need in my day. Sweating and continuously
rehydrating have become my life. My brain is functioning at around 70%
performance.

Even my wardrobe
needed a total overhaul, as I quickly learned. Any piece of clothing that is
not at least 90% pure cotton, modal, other natural, breathable fibre has been
banished back to the UK or at least hurled back into my suitcase in disgust
ready for the next journey home. Polyester is a pest. Viscose is an absolute
no-no. It is a horrible sensation trying to interview candidates for job
openings or lead a training session when you feel over-heated and 100%
uncomfortable in your outfit. Never have I fidgeted so much during my working
day.

I have now been
in Budapest for eight months and like a typical English girl, the weather still
very much dictates how I spend my time. If it is going to be a real scorcher,
as it often is, I may opt for a cool museum or art gallery trip coupled with a
sunshine stroll around Buda Castle, City Park (Városliget) or the island where
shade and thermal baths are on offer. If we are in for storms – and my goodness
have I seen some phenomenal lightning storms since I moved here – then a
welcome day at the keyboard it is. And for the rest, it involves a lot of
water, a well prepared picnc, decent walking shoes, a hat, a helluva lot of
high factor sun cream, and early morning energy to catch the bus/tram/train to
the selected destination for a day of exploration.

I do still love
the sun. That fundamental desire in me to feel its rays on my face and see it
glinting off rooftops and water has not changed. But my desire to always be in it, feeling it against my skin, has. As someone before who would always have
chosen to sit in the sun, now I make a beeline for shade. As someone who enjoys
being outside, walking around new places, exploring, finding peace and being
left to my thoughts, regularly sitting, dripping with sweat and exhaustion, on
busy public transport, going here or there under fierce heat has become really
hard work. It has got to the stage where it is almost a chore forcing myself to
make a plan to go out and do something with my weekends and getting up early enough to
go and do it before the sun hits its peak.

I always say, in
life, that I would only ever want to regret things that I had done, and not
things that I had not done. So I need to stick to that philosophy and force
myself myself to fill my last months in Hungary with soaking up as much of its
country and culture as possible before the chance to do so ends. Soon enough I
will be back in England, onto the next chapter of my life, and I would hate to
return knowing that I did not live this chapter as fully as I wanted to.

Then again, at
least, if nothing else, I have learned that viscose is not my friend, and I have found that hiding from the sun does wonders for ones word count.

Sunday, 8 April 2018

Whilst it can be of
phenomenal strength in literature or poetry, music or film, repetition in life
is arguably among the most tedious and irritating experiences we are doomed to
suffer. At least that is the way it can feel. Time passes so quickly and yet at
once seems to stutter and start over the same hurdles. Without challenge we
would be bored, but why do the same lessons have to be repeated?

I seem to be stuck in
a nightmare circle in my day job where the same problems, which have already been
reviewed and seemingly resolved, crop up time and time again whenever there is
a contract or staff change. Is it that people are inherently incapable of
taking instruction from others, always believing they know best and resisting
guidance? Is it that they are entirely unable to learn from mistakes? Or
unwilling, perhaps?

I am become that
broken record, continuously providing the same instruction and the same piece
of advice over and over and over again in an endless whirl leaving me to
frequently and repetitively pose the questions: “What is wrong with people?” “Am
I speaking English?” “Where is the nearest brick wall so I can bang my head
against it?” There is something severely distasteful to me about having to
revisit something already considered closed. Why?

As a child I was very
lucky – my parents would often read to me, making stories and characters come
alive and igniting that love for storytelling which means so much to me today.
One book, one phrase, always stuck with me, and I can, even now, hear my father’s
voice uttering it: “And don’t look back”.

Has that phrase, don’t
look back, so ingrained itself in my subconscious that any repetition, any
revisiting of the past stokes impatience in me? Has it become my underlying
philosophy in life?

Don’t look back.

Life is too short to
dwell. Too short to spend time re-doing something that was already done. Too
short to linger on what has gone.

Don’t look back.

Repetition. It can be
a beautiful and poignant device.

Repetition. It can be
the most depressing point of the day.

Don’t look back. Don’t
dwell on it. Move on. Embrace the repetition. Perhaps that has to become my new
mantra. Perhaps I will learn something, even if others won’t. Perhaps reaching
for optimism in our lowest points is to truly find strength within that we did
not know was there.

Saturday, 9 December 2017

It really has
been two months since I squashed as many of my belongings as I could into two
suitcases, leaving pretty much everything that was precious to me behind, not
for the first time in life, and moved to Budapest, a city that is as diverse
and exciting as it is dated and surly with the weight of its past.

Its past is an
immense treasure, uncovered piece by piece, day by day, as life here goes on.
The first thing I learned was always to look up. I have since realised that it
should be always look everywhere. You never know what next point of interest is
hiding around the next corner, beneath your feet, or towering above you.

My first weeks
here were a wonder – the novelty of everything new, everything waiting to be
discovered. I was here and despite the terrible stress of my day job, despite
the culture shock and despite a horrible cold/fever that plagued me for those
first weeks, I could not have been more hungry to experience all that my new
home could offer.

Somewhere
between then and now the great many administrative tasks I have had to
negotiate in a language I cannot speak have put a more dull coating on my new existence.
Apartment hunting – landlords, agents, tenants, appointments – always a bit of
a bore. Opening a bank account – not so easy when you realise that English speakers
are the definite minority. Thankfully a recommendation from a colleague solved
my issue. And residency permits. Who knew as a European – for indeed we Brits
still are European for now, and long may it last – I needed one? Queuing for
nearly and hour in the cold then for almost as long again in a stuffy hot hall
amidst a nervous, eager, frenzy of immigrants clutching passports and
paperwork, desperate to be allowed to stay in a country where they have secured
jobs and laid roots all the time knowing that it could all be snatched away. I
almost felt guilty that firming up my residency status was so easy in
comparison – I only needed to provide my signature 10+ times on papers I could
not read (placing a lot of trust in my translator there!) to get a printed,
laminated card that makes me an official Budapest resident now.

And from
immigration I move to poverty, for it has become very apparent that many
Hungarians are living in poverty. Homeless roam the streets even more visibly
than back in Birmingham. Their makeshift homes and tiny communities are
evident. I cannot understand them when they speak, but when they smile and
greet me good morning on my way to work my heart aches. This is a city where
you cannot recycle glass at your home – something that enraged me initially – but
now I know if I get my glass empties to someone homeless, they can exchange
them for a few forints at a supermarket. I may not be able to solve their
problems, and I ‘do not judge’, which is all they ask of me when I pass by, but
I can send a few forints their way. How they choose to spend it is up to them.

This is a city
where a ‘few forints’ can buy an exceptional cup of soup or a pretty decent
‘daily meal’. Another thing I have realised is that here, with my ‘British’
salary, even on a single income I am far nearer the ‘wealthy’ end of the living
spectrum than I ever have been before. This is a country where first class
train travel, luxury spa treatments and slap up three course meals with drinks
are very affordable. This is a country where I qualify for a premium bank
account, for goodness sake. Me. I have my own banker.

This is a
parallel universe, but not one that is easy to digest. Maybe I should be
revelling in my comfortable status, but it actually leaves a bit of a sick
feeling in the pit of my stomach. The difference in perception of money, value,
affordability, between myself and my Hungarian colleagues, is jarring. For me,
being able to buy a two course lunch, every day if I wished, for about £2.80,
or a very, very tasty fresh soup for £1.40 is a miracle. To them it is ok but
they can’t afford to do it very often. To me, jumping on a train from Budapest
to Vienna with a return first class ticket for less than 40 euros was a
miracle. To them, it is an occasional trip that would need planning and saving
for.

I have lived the
highs of Budapest, and I have seen and heard the lows, and I have had wonderful
days, and I have had days that are not so wonderful. Is that any different to
life anywhere else, at any other time? Had I not come here, would I be sipping
a glass of wine, eating olives, and tapping out my thoughts just the same as I
find myself doing tonight?

The language is
my main problem, fact. Going to places. Doing things. Shopping. Online
shopping. When you realise that you cannot read or even pronounce almost every
word you see, and cannot converse with people, life becomes hard. Every task
that would usually be easily accomplished takes ten times as long as it should
and comes with an added level of stress and challenge. Today I managed to buy the
correct postage stamps in the post office from a non-English speaking clerk.
And this is a great achievement of the day. I have to try and focus on the positives
and take something from each experience.

So here is the
best thing I have learned since moving to Budapest: the things we take for granted
in life are blessings. Without them life becomes much harder, much sadder at
times. We can become easily disappointed with our own limitations. So we must
try not to. We must try not to get downhearted, and we must try not to take
things for granted. Where we have advantages, comforts, benefits, we must
appreciate them, because for those who do not have them, life is not so tinted
with joy.

Sunday, 22 October 2017

Walking the
streets of a new city, looking around shops and studying products as though
everything is totally new to me because packaging is no longer in a language I
can understand, taking nothing for granted anymore, I am seeing the world and
all of its parts in a new way.

All around me I
see imitation. Is anyone satisfied with being him/herself? In people, products,
places it is there. It seems as though everyone, everything, everywhere strives
to be someone, or something, or somewhere different.

One of the main shopping
streets here is known as the Champs Elysees of Budapest.

Why can’t we
stand alone? Why can’t we be ourselves?

As I look around
me I see groups of young people dress in the same way, style their hair the
same, make themselves over in the style of someone else – a stranger on their
morning commute, the still, serene face from a magazine, their closest friends,
their greatest rivals. They wear matching bracelets, buy the same cover for
their identical mobile phones, live in the same area, visit the same places.

It appears to be
in our nature to mimic what we admire. To crave it for ourselves. To always
want to better ourselves in some way. To be in a better place. To become that
which we admire. Life is short. Perhaps it should be no surprise that we want
more from it. But by wanting more do we miss the chance to enjoy what we have?

No matter how
deeply it runs, no matter how great the effort to achieve that imitation, the
copy is never as interesting, as convincing or as good as the original. It is
the original’s very uniqueness that makes it worthy of imitation in the first
place.

A crude
experiment helped me realise this conclusion. Take two make-up palettes, one
from a big name brand with a high price tag, the other from a high street store
with a scandalously cheap price. The low end product is a blatant homage to the
first. Same colours, same theme, same attempt at scenting the product, same
cute presentation. Both portray an appealing picture, but when it comes to the
detail the low end copy falls short. The cheap plastic casing has already
broken whereas the high end metal tin is flawless. The eyeshadows themselves
are an inferior product. Application is hard work for a finish that looks less
polished and is not as long lasting as the original.

Before I tried
either of them I suspected this would be the outcome, but I had to try. And there
it is. Imitation. A desire to bring something better to within our grasp. It will
always be there, because even when we know we have found something unique,
something worthy of being up on that pedestal, we cannot help but reach for it.

Saturday, 14 October 2017

Well almost a
week. I arrived in my new home on Monday. Already I have walked sooooooo many
miles to and from work and spent the evenings exploring possible areas to settle,
have greatly enjoyed the autumn sunshine, eaten a rose-shaped ice cream and
listened to a band play beside the basilica, and begun to get used to being in
a place where everything beside a few high street shops is unfamiliar.

Life is officially
an adventure and learning experience from hereon in.

What have I
learned so far?

1) In Budapest,
always look up. There is so much cool architecture and design here and if you
don’t look up you are guaranteed to miss a gem, like in the photo above. I saw this while waiting to cross the street on the way to work. The photo doesn't really do justice to those paintings.

2) English is
not as widely spoken as you think it would be. I will have to rapidly learn
some basic Hungarian to avoid any more awkward charades-meets-Marcel-Marceau
moments.

3) C&A is my
new favourite shop. In the UK we lost it around the 90s but here it lives on
in splendid fashion!

4) I am possibly
in the best place for Halloween. There is a pumpkin festival. Yes, really!